


all I wanted was a sliver to call mine

by thinkatory



Category: The Knick (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, One-Sided Relationship, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>By his third year of high school, he was no longer Algernon, to the teachers, to the other students at his level. He was Edwards. This was a trend that would persist with everyone but the Captain, and her.</i>
</p><p>What freedom can do for a man who considered himself free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all I wanted was a sliver to call mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hangingfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangingfire/gifts).



> Hi, hangingfire, I love that someone loves these occasionally super sketchy characters as much as I do. I totally pinged on your suggestion about Edwards's time in Europe, and really wanted to explore the potential before and after of how the separate societies would treat him and inform his character. I hope you enjoy this story <3
> 
> (Title from "Make You Better" by the Decemberists.)

No one expected Algernon Edwards to go to high school. But here he was.

By his third year there, he was no longer Algernon, to the teachers, to the other students at his level. He was Edwards. This was a trend that would persist with everyone but the Captain, and her.

 _Edwards,_ they would say, _come here, hold this; Edwards, can you stay late in the lab? we need someone to clean up; Edwards, clean the instruments, we'll handle the write-up._

The year previous had been when he'd realized how much he hated so many people. It was a strange conflict for an aspiring medical professional to have, or so he thought at the time. As it turned out later, at least in the United States, it was practically a job requirement.

He wouldn't let himself hate because of skin color. It wasn't about their skin color, not to him. They were the ones with problems about his skin color. He was either too dark to be taken seriously, or too smart to be respected. There was no way to win. It wasn't a game worth playing. Very few games were.

He came home, slipping through the neighborhood with relative ease despite the heft of the books he brought with him, and found himself face to face with the Captain as he was halfway into the servants' quarters.

"Sir, I -- " he stammered. "May I help you?"

"Algernon, my boy," the Captain said, kindly, patronizing, but that could be expected of a patron. (His mother was an excellent housekeeper and cook. Still, they were overwhelmingly kind to his family. There was no point in complaining on good treatment by those in power because it chafed.) "Come with me."

It occurred to him that something terrible might be about to happen -- or have happened. He wondered if his mother was dead. He wondered if the high school had rescinded their agreement to take him in based on the Captain's status as a donor. He wondered all these things at once, and his head spun. The Captain nodded that he should sit across the table from him when they reached the Captain's study, and Edwards looked across the table at him with his strongest efforts in play to mask his fear.

"There's no reason to be worried, Master Edwards," the Captain chided. It didn't calm him overly much. "All's well. I bring good news."

He hadn't been expecting that. "Captain, sir, I'm glad to hear so."

"You are the very picture of a Negro gentleman, you know." The Captain smiled. "That's among the reasons why my wife and I have looked into sponsoring your education further."

"For next year?" He'd cut the Captain off. He balked.

The Captain didn't seem to take issue with that rudeness, though. "For university. Yes, Master Edwards. If you work hard in this next year and a half, you may find yourself a position at a university."

Edwards could hardly breathe. "But. Not here," he said, stammering. "I mean... thank you, sir, it's an honor to have been considered for this, but the -- there are universities that accept black men, but none within a thousand miles, and..."

"And I think that's an extraordinarily short-sighted view of your options," the Captain said, almost jolly. "Why only a thousand miles?"

That was not at all what he expected to hear. This conversation was comprised largely of that and nothing else, though. "More than one thousand -- " _Oh._ He hoped he wasn't misreading this, or that he had let his hopes get too high. "You mean."

"Outside the country. Europe, in fact. I know that you speak quite passable French."

"And read it, sir."

"Yes, indeed." The Captain smiled. "Canada, if it comes to that. But you would flourish in England, or on the Continent. You're already something of a continental man, no matter from whence you've come."

His face had grown hot in the last ten seconds. "That would be an incredible price, sir. I will accept it, if I can earn it. But I do not expect it of you, that much I can say. You're a kinder man than many, to my family more than anyone, and... what you have done is more than enough."

There was silence, and he feared he had offended the man, but then the Captain began to laugh. "My God," he said, "if you had been born a white man, I daresay you would have found yourself halfway through medical school and in position to gain a residency by spring."

People found those sort of sentiments funny, sometimes. Edwards didn't often think so. What-ifs were for those whose focus wasn't firmly on the future. "I doubt I can manage things that quickly, sir, but I will do my best."

"Good, good. I'm glad we're agreed." He offered his hand to shake; they shook, firmly, and the Captain's faint smile bolstered him even through his fear at hoping at all for something beyond him and his station. "Work hard, Master Edwards. I will be looking towards your progress."

"I will do my best, Captain, sir, you'll see."

"Dismissed, then. And try not to carry so many books so far unless you want hands-on learning with a doctor at the Knick for a hernia surgery!"

"Yes, sir," Edwards said, and cautiously grinned as he headed back to the servants' quarters.

\--

"You're leaving," Cornelia's voice came faintly from the doorway of his room. "Tomorrow? For London?"

Edwards jumped; he was hardly dressed, at least not for the presence of a lady, and he wished he had some way to easily shut her out that wasn't completely rude. He was not prepared for this conversation, in dress or mind. "Yes," he said. "Yes, Miss Robertson. I am."

"You don't have to call me that." She lingered in the doorway. "May I come in, Algernon?"

He didn't think he could do this; no man could be pulled in such separate directions without being pulled apart like a quartering. "Yes, of course."

She stepped inside, and closed the door behind her, pausing for a moment before she turned to him. The silence was stifling. "I know you have to go."

"Yes, Cornelia, I do."

She turned when he spoke her name, her eyes alight. He knew what that look meant. He knew also that he couldn't think about it for long. "I wish you didn't. I want you to be happy, I want you to become -- excellent -- to prove to everyone you are what and whom we've always known you to be. But I will miss you terribly."

When he was young, Algernon had considered Cornelia an angel in the flesh. He had prayed to God thanking Him for sending her down to look over them. He didn't believe that anymore, but it was sometimes more reassuring than the truth. A good many things were. "And I will miss you too."

"You'll send me letters?"

Very few games were worth playing. "Of course."

She drew closer; he simply watched her. "I wish things were different," she confessed.

"What things?" He knew better than to be sardonic, and couldn't have sent barbed words at Miss Robertson of all people. Still... _what things_ indeed.

"The things that keep us apart. The things we were made to learn about, that didn't matter to us, and now they -- everyone else -- " She stopped her stammering. "There was a time we felt we could tell each other anything."

"That was a long time ago." Her eyes were so intent on his face. He knew what this was. He knew, but he couldn't say a thing to stop her or encourage her, and didn't know which he would do given the option. No; he knew. "Cornelia. I should dress. Dinner is in an hour."

"You sound like my father sometimes, Algernon." It wasn't an insult, more of a tease. She moved two steps forward; she was now inches away, with a faint smile on her face. "I'm proud of you."

He wondered if a man basking in the loving gaze of a woman he has loved as well often felt like he stood in Medusa's sights. "Then we're proud of each other. You'll be a great humanitarian in your own right one day."

Cornelia raised her hand and touched his face; his eyes fell closed for a moment, just a moment, and her lips parted, her eyes went soft, and he withdrew.

"Thank you for your compliments and well-wishes, Miss Robertson," he said, "I will remember your faith in me."

He took up his tie and ignored her, then, focusing on tying it straight. A stunned, wounded moment later, she left his room in silence.

\--

Edwards sent letters home -- or, as he called them more often now, post. Europe was infectious. He understood now why so many academics and artistic sorts preferred it here. There were freedoms the United States had in abundance that he had never truly cared for or had the chance to take advantage of, but those freedoms Europe had...

It wasn't a flawless place. There was still racism, still classism, there were still the sick, the indigent, and the struggling.

What Europe did give him was hope.

He got to do more than cleaning instruments and making observations that others would be credited with. He got a chance to experiment, to learn by experiencing things hands-on, to spend his time in as many of the labs as he could find an excuse to enter. Though he was halfway across the world from the people he cared most for, it was the happiest he had ever been.

It was him. Himself. The philosophers spoke of the process of discovering your true self, tapping into its potential, and becoming the best possible version of yourself. He had not quite reached that last, but he had skimmed his fingertips across self-actualization and did each time that he studied medicine, anatomy, surgical techniques, each time he read medical journals until he fell asleep on top of them.

He found himself giddy at times, stifling it for his reputation's sake; his well-honed poker face that he'd learned in the hard streets of New York served him well in this incredibly opposite task. It was too right, he felt too welcome, but there was no danger in it. Not here.

This was what he was meant to do, and he owed the Captain everything for seeing it in him.

\--

_Edwards, I would ask that you co-author this paper with me; Edwards, please join me in the lab, talk me through this change in technique you suggested; Edwards, it's been a privilege having you here, and if you need anything at all I'll do everything I can for you; Edwards, you are one of the finest doctors I've met, and I know they'll all know your name soon._

Yes. He was very far from home. More than one thousand miles away from home. Very far from any dreams he had even dared to have while lying in his narrow bed in New York.

But he missed home.

Maybe it would be different now?

\--

It wasn't. Boston wasn't, either. Nor was the Knick. But _he_ was different, and that meant things from here, within here, around here, could change.


End file.
